


Pick Your Path and I’ll Pray

by Casafrass



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 70’s, Anal Sex, Angst, M/M, Smut, They technically cheat on their wives, Unbeta’d so prepare yourself, You Have Been Warned, i don’t think Paul actually cheated on Linda, idk Paul freaks out, it’s only a work of fiction, it’s really sad, panic attack sort of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 16:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22499056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casafrass/pseuds/Casafrass
Summary: 1973. John runs into Paul at an event for the first time since the breakup. Feelings bubble to the surface, and promises are broken once again.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 22
Kudos: 90





	Pick Your Path and I’ll Pray

**Author's Note:**

> Listen y’all, this has been in my drafts for about six frigging months and if I don’t post it now, I’m probably never going to. 
> 
> Tbh I don’t think I’m very skilled in writing Lennon-McCartney. Especially not sex, good lord. But I was really excited to write this. And I love writing angst. So, hope you all enjoy :) 
> 
> Thank you to @unchained_daisychain, @blobfish_miffy and @honeyheffron for helping me write!! 
> 
> The title is from ‘Gold Dust Woman.’ Thank you Fleetwood Mac for making the ultimate angst playlist.

The laugh was part of an array of laughs, as delicately selected from as a scalpel from a surgeon’s kit.  
John thought maybe, if he didn’t look, the laugh would disappear and it’d just be some sick joke his mind was playing on him. He could go back to trying to scratch his bruised psyche and let the roll of tobacco fizzle to a stub and burn his fingertips. 

He knows that laugh. Even when he loved the man, he hated the laugh. 

It was too synthetic for John’s taste, like it’d been created in a factory. That’s not how laughs were supposed to sound.  
They were meant to be free and bright, as natural as could be.  
Slowly, John got to his feet, like he was stuck in a glob of the hair gel he used in the early days. It’d been a step away from gasoline and Mimi had often lectured him about how less was more and not to go near any open flames. 

“John?” 

Indeed, he was playing with fire tonight. 

John stopped. He thinks that’s what did it. That’s what sealed his doom. The fact that he hadn’t kept walking. His feet were glued to the floor.  
He knows what they say about curiosity.  
John turns, seeing exactly what he knew he would. Satisfaction won’t be bringing him back.  
Paul isn’t smiling, but then again, John hadn’t really expected him to be. 

Paul’s eyes keep darting around, afraid of what might happen if they’re seen together. He feels sinful even speaking John’s name.  
He keeps his distance even though they’re like magnets, and they always smash into each other and can’t let go. 

“Paul.” It sounds like the crowd around them has gone dead quiet. Paul being close makes everything too real.  
“You look well,” Paul comments.  
John nods tartly at his attempt to break the ice.  
“And you. Finally lopped that creature off your head, I see.” 

Paul barely manages to refrain from rolling his eyes. He slides out a cigarette, snapping the lighter like he’s done a million times before, and saying nothing, like he’s done a million times before.  
Hazel eyes flick up through a nicotine laced sigh. 

“It was time for a change, I think.” 

An understatement for the century. 

Paul’s next drag is even deeper. He’s gnawing his lip in between inhales, rubbing a rough cuticle.  
“Well... I’ll see you.” John’s never been good with forcing himself through awkward situations. He feels restless watching Paul practically eat the cigarette.  
He goes to leave and maybe destroy a bottle of whiskey before his flight tomorrow.  
“John.”  
Now it’s the second time he’s stopped and set himself up for failure.  
“Um...” Paul’s square front teeth are nestling into his bottom lip.  
“Wha’s up, Macca?”  
Something resembling surprised affection flashes across Paul’s face and he carefully takes another drag. 

_He must be slipping._

“Linda didn’t come. Kids, you know.”

John nods. He doesn’t know where Paul is going with this. 

“So I was thinking, maybe we could, eh, catch up some.” 

John raises an eyebrow. 

Paul’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, fingers picking at invisible bass strings.  
He takes another drag, puffing it out while lowering his gaze.  
“Why?” John finally asks.  
Paul’s own brows shoot up, obviously having expected a straight _no._  
“Um, w-well, uh, it’s been a while and... I jus’ thought maybe we could talk some, have a drink. Y’know, like before.”  
“It can’t be like before,” John interjects a little too harshly.  
Paul flinches.  
“R-right. I know. You know what I mean though, don’t you, John?” His tone is almost pleading. 

John wishes he didn’t but he does. 

A sigh. “Sure, Paul. I know what ya mean.” 

They decide to go to Paul’s hotel, which, unsurprisingly, is two steps away from being a barn and can hardly be considered a hotel. It’s one of those earthy, quaint, little pubs that had been converted into a bed and breakfast. Small, cozy, and the exact opposite of where you’d expect one of the most popular musicians in the world to stay. 

“I think that’s the manger Jesus was laid in,” John points to a wooden feeding trough that’s clearly only meant for homely decoration.  
Not his best but it draws a giggle out of Paul regardless and John’s mouth twitches hearing the real laugh that had been so painful to hear when the confused hate had taken hold. 

Paul’s like a stranger in his own room; tidying cups and plastic takeout containers, shoving clothes back in his suitcase, straightening ugly pictures that are nailed to the wall. He’s humming under his breath and is on his second cigarette of the hour, stuck in an endless loop of anxious, robotic motions. 

That’s until John breaks the silence, unable to watch anymore. 

“Paul, I truly don’t give a shite ‘bout what your room looks like.”  
That snaps Paul out of the cycle and he stares at John like he’s grown a third head, before stubbing out his cigarette.  
“Oh— right, I know. Just wanted to make things comfortable.”  
Paul reached over and set out two scotch glasses, pouring some whiskey. He sat back and gestured for John to sit.  
John leaned into the cushion with the glass, propping his feet on the coffee table.  
It’s quiet, save for the steady hum of the heater and the crisp sizzle of fire licking through cigarette paper.  
“How’s your family-?”  
“-How’s Linda?”  
Paul titters, turning to face John more.  
“She’s good. We’ve been working on the album.”  
“Hm. Musically inclined, is she?” Linda had seemed artistic to John but perhaps not in the same way as he and Paul were. No one would ever come close to the way they were.  
“Sure. Likes to sing. She’s got a pretty voice.”  
Something about how dreamy Paul sounds makes John sour.  
“Found someone to harmonize with, choir boy?” John’s voice might’ve gotten deeper since his Liverpool days but the tease is still the same one he’d dubbed Paul that fateful summer day.

The younger man flicks some ash delicately into the tray next to him. No matter how nervous he is, Paul’s not going to let ash land on the carpet, however horrendously tacky it may be.  
“Mmhmm. Not like u—“ Paul stops himself. That was _over._ John didn’t want to hear that.  
“And... Yoko?” Paul says instead.  
“Alright. Working out the details for the next album.”  
“Just her?”  
John shrugs.  
“She’s good with business. Like you.”  
The air has become thick. John wonders if maybe he should’ve gone back to his room alone instead.  
“Oh. Glad you’re doing well,” Paul offers and he sounds like he means it.  
“Yeah. Somehow Rich’s doing better than all of us,” John scoffs. He’s good at that— lightening the tension. Paul’s better. And Paul doesn’t create tension in the first place. Except now, strangely enough. John feels like he’s fallen through a trapdoor where nothing is as it should be. The feeling sends chills up his spine.  
Nothing prepares him for what comes next. 

It’s hard to keep an addiction at bay. 

John‘s realized that when you’ve been deprived of a drug so long, finally getting a fix is better than the first time you tried it. You know exactly how the high will feel and getting a chance to live it again is inestimable. 

So when he feels the shadow of lips on his, he kisses back and lets his tongue dart out for a second to lap up the sugary, smoke-addled poison being offered to him. It’s served on a silver platter, waiting to push John to the stars and give him a taste of what he can’t have. 

Paul’s hungry, devouring John like he hasn’t eaten in years. His hands are everywhere, bitten nails digging into John’s scalp and making him hiss. Their teeth click and John feels his back hitting the arm of the sofa as Paul pushes him forward, nestling in his lap.  
He can’t _think_ straight. He can’t even be bothered to open his eyes, too enraptured with feeling as much of John as he can before he has to leave. John always has to go before Paul can take. 

But then there are hands on Paul’s shoulders and he feels himself being pushed backwards. He doesn’t even register what’s happening until John’s firmly squeezing his arms, shaking him.  
“Stop it!” John shouts and Paul’s eyes fly open, wobbling on his knees.  
“Christ, what the hell’s wrong with you? Damn near bit me lips off. Actin’ like one of those crazy birds from outside me hotel.” John lets go, mouth twisted in disgust. 

_Ouch._ Paul pulls away.

“Should’ve known that’s all you wanted. ‘Catch up,’ hm?” John scoffs scathingly, reaching for a cigarette. 

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. John has been speaking without thinking for years and Paul’s learned to ignore him and to not take hurtful words with a grain of salt. 

But these words sound like they’ve been buried for a long time, waiting to crawl out of John’s throat and sink their teeth into Paul’s heart. 

“But- you kissed me.” Paul touches his lips, wondering if this is all some twisted nightmare and he’ll awaken to Linda soothing him gently, kissing away his bad dreams.  
“Well, ‘s not like you gave me much choice, did ya?”  
“I-I missed you, John.” Paul’s offering his heart. Can’t John see that?  
“Oh, _God._ It’s just like you, Paul. Always missin’ what you can’t have.” 

John is angry. He hopes he sounds it too. Paul never gave much thought to taking without giving back. He gave to everyone except the ones who loved him most. He deserves to hear whatever John has for him.  
“Left us all, fucking off to wherever with your brand new family and-“  
_“I_ left? Who wanted the divorce?”  
“That was a joke! Didn’t actually mean it till you started parading it around like a disgruntled wife, selling her broken marriage to the highest bidder with a camera,” John snapped viciously. 

Paul’s eyes crackle with ire, standing up so he can look down at John and not appear as small as he feels. 

“You are such an asshole!” Paul shouts. He’s loud, louder than he’s ever been, but John doesn’t back down.  
“Me? Look who’s fuckin’ talking! Inviting me up here just to get your rocks off.” The fire is out now, can’t be drawn back.  
Someone’s going to get burned.  
“Fuck you, John.” Paul dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, choking through stubborn tears. He can’t believe he’s doing this in front of John: _crying,_ like a girl. His lips burn from how hard he’s chewing them. 

John can’t do much more than stare. Paul never cried. It happened only once with John, in Hamburg, when they’d been drunk off their arses and tripping on prellie cocktails and rum. And they’d walked by a church called St. Mary’s and Paul had sat down on those chipped stone steps and started to cry about how he hoped his mum was happy wherever she was but why couldn’t she have stayed on earth and be happy with him? 

John remembers comforting him as best as his fried brain had allowed, a hug and possibly a barely there kiss on his temple. The marble angels had watched them with pitying despair, clasping their cold hands in prayer.  
He remembers being scared because Paul didn’t do that. Paul didn’t show any emotions besides happiness and mild distaste.  
Neither of them ever brought it up. 

Now, nearly twelve years later, Paul’s crying and John’s afraid again. He watches Paul sniffle and rub his eyes raw for a long time before stepping forward carefully, like approaching a wild animal.  
This isn’t right. Paul is supposed to be the strong, calm one. John’s the screamer, the crier, the one who smashes things and hurls insults. 

But tonight he’s wrapping his arms around Paul and leading him to the bedroom. Tonight he’s soothing, taking care of Paul in a way he’s needed for a while. 

_Sleep, John._ That’s what Paul always advised. _You’ll feel better in the morning._

But John suspects that’s not going to work this time. 

Wordlessly, he removes Paul’s shoes and lines them next to the door as had been drilled into his brain. He pulled back the sheets and helped Paul into bed. But Paul didn’t let go, watery gaze pleading to not be left alone. Loneliness was terrifying at night. John would certainly know. 

So he pushes off his shoes by the heels and lays on the crisply made sheets, putting his arms around Paul until he quiets. 

“I’m sorry I’m so fragile,” Paul whispered.  
“We’re all fragile, Paul.” 

John lets Paul cling to him, like Paul had let him many times before. Fragility wasn’t something to be outgrown. 

And soon, it starts again with chaste, careful kisses. Paul tests the waters, afraid of unraveling the delicate stitches of understanding that’s mended the situation for now. 

John doesn’t push him away this time. So Paul gets needier; he kisses deeper, pulls harder. He takes and John lets him. 

“Can I...?” Paul whispers, hand on John’s inner thigh. John nods, welcoming Paul into his lap. He’s falling into the trap again; John knows nothing lasts forever and Paul isn’t all himself. But he’s wanted any version of McCartney he can get for the last three years.  
Because John’s just as greedy— he knows he’s taking just as much, wanting more than he should.  
But if Paul’s willing to give, it doesn’t matter, right?  
The kisses are heated now, and Paul’s unzipping his trousers, pliant in John’s lap like warm syrup. 

Paul wants to be taken. He can’t form a single coherent thought. Everything is John. _John is here, John wants me, John is touching me, John needs me too._

“Have me like you used to?” Paul begs, too afraid to look John in the eye.  
“Yes,” John breathes into Paul’s neck, branding the flesh. No hesitation.  
Tonight, they will burn until nothing is left. 

Paul hurries off the bed and fishes around in his bag for a moment before pulling out a small bottle of lube. He watches wordlessly as John squeezes the gel into his hand and smears it around.  
John grazes Paul’s puckered entrance, making him shudder. 

“Ready?” John murmurs and Paul nods, holding onto John’s shoulders. 

He slides one long finger inside and Paul’s mouth falls open, breath choppy. When he’s adjusted, he squeezes John’s arm: their signal to continue.  
John adds another finger and he feels Paul’s nose dig into his neck.  
John opens him up for a few minutes and it takes him a moment to realize that Paul’s saying something. Over and over, like a mantra. 

_“Forgive me. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, for—“_

John pulls Paul back by his shirt to find his eyes are squeezed tight and there are tears leaking out. He’s rocking on John’s fingers steadily, hands clasped together like those stony angels.  
“Hey, hey. Paul. Paul, honey, look at me. You’re scaring me, love. Come on, you need to look at me.”  
Paul opens his eyes but his irises are fogged over. John goes cold. 

That is not his Paul looking back at him. 

He’s chewing on a fingernail, spreading his legs to push back on John’s hand. He’s moaning but John can’t tell if it’s out of pleasure or anguish.  
So he pulls his hand out. That snaps Paul back pretty quick and he whines, pushing forward.  
“No, John, please come back, I’m _sorry!_ I’m sorry, don’t leave, don’t leave.” Paul’s babbling, eyes red and swollen.  
John curses and grabs a tissue to wipe his hand. He then switches positions so Paul is sitting against the headboard.  
John wonders briefly how many times Paul’s experienced this. The crushing claustrophobia of being abandoned. 

He doesn’t think about how many times it had been because of him. 

“Paul.” John can feel panic rising in his throat. He shouldn’t have stayed. Paul was never his to be had.  
“Paul, look at me. You’re scaring me. I’m scared, love, just like you.”  
John gently shakes Paul, trying to get him to snap out of his hysteria. Touches his face, arms, anything to bring Paul back to Earth.  
Slowly, Paul calms down. His breathing returns to normal. His eyes focus and John can see the fog fading. It’s Paul. Paul’s here, in whatever form John will have him. 

“Good. So good, love. So proud of you, coming back to me again.”  
Paul doesn’t do much more than whimper.  
“Can you speak to me, Paul? I miss your voice. Miss my bunny.”  
Paul swallows harshly, leaning back against the headboard.  
“I got scared.”  
John nodded, beginning to play with Paul’s hair, pushing strands behind his ear.  
“I know. That’s okay. We all get scared sometimes. Maybe what I was doing was too much.” John’s voice is tender and it washes over Paul like a cloud of gold. 

It’s been years since John’s spoken to him like that. He’s only ever needed to be treated gently. 

But Paul quickly shakes his head because no, he doesn’t want John leaving without touching him. Paul has to feel him, wants proof in the morning that John was here and it wasn’t a fever dream. He’ll lose his mind if he doesn’t.  
“No, ‘s not too much. Just got ahead of m’self. But I’m alright. I still want you, John.”  
John is hesitant. He doesn’t want that to happen again. But Paul looks so desperate and John doesn’t like that.  
Doesn’t like Paul being so uncharacteristically dependent. 

Paul was always in control. What had John done to him? 

He lets Paul climb back into his lap. His erection had long wilted but with Paul’s sounds and his bare arse squirming over him, John’s interest is renewed.  
Paul’s kissing any skin he can reach, tongue sloppily licking John’s mouth. He’s getting excited, willingly throwing himself into John, like he wants to forget about everything around them. 

It’s just them. There are no wives, no albums, no pressures. John is here, he’s staying. Paul can touch him, can smell the smoke in his hair, taste his sweat. 

John eventually unbuttons his own jeans and returns to his original position so Paul is on top and can feel in control. He sinks down onto John slowly, foreheads bumping together. 

Paul’s panting in John’s ear, eyes screwed shut. It’s biblical, dare he say. A moment that’ll change them forever. Something electric and palpable, wound too tight like a guitar string. 

He’s really so beautiful, John thinks. Even with the swollen lids and dried tear streaks, Paul looks like a marble sculpture carved by Michelangelo himself. John can’t believe he can reach out and feel plump lips sink under his fingers, bruise milky skin with his teeth.  
Paul’s head is thrown back, mouth slackened like he’s been filled with divine light.  
John drags a hand through Paul’s hair which startles him, eyes fluttering open.  
“Wha-?”  
“You’re so beautiful. How did you become so beautiful?” John asks in awe, tracing the shell of Paul’s ear with a finger.  
“I’m- I’m not... still?”  
“Always,” John breathes. He grunts as Paul shifts.  
The walls echo with the sounds of their joined bodies, watching as John indulges in the forbidden poison and Paul takes like he’s done for forever. 

They’re both so close, gliding on the edge of bliss. John’s fingernails are digging into Paul’s hips, leaving proof for his hazy mornings. 

And then Paul speaks. 

“Why did you leave me? What did I do?” His voice is small like a child’s and the bliss crumbles. He’s not crying; just numbly curious. Paul’s face is in John’s neck, voice sending vibrations. 

John doesn’t know how to respond for a long time. It’s such a loaded question. He wants to say he didn’t leave anyone but he has, he does, and it’ll always hurt. 

“It was just time. If it hadn’t have been me, it would’ve been George.” John hates how his voice cracks.  
Paul sighs but doesn’t stop moving, spurring both of them on.  
“I miss you. I wish you didn’t leave.” Paul’s fingers tighten in John’s hair, tucking his legs closer. His voice is thin.  
“I miss you too, Paul. So much. Every day.” 

Paul bends his knees and angles his hips so John goes deeper. He doesn’t do more than whimper.  
Paul remembers when it hurt. Remembers staring at the cracks in the ceiling and wishing he was rotting six feet underground.  
John was there. His voice was a few buttons away. Still, Paul couldn’t reach him. Everyone could reach John but Paul.  
He was so far, as far as he’d felt the first day they’d met. John was a god beyond Paul’s realm of consciousness. 

And, perhaps, he’s never really reached him at all. 

He feels fragile in John’s arms. Paul knows John could break him easily but he trusts his friend. He’d trusted John before; just look where that’d brought him. 

They can hardly hear with them both echoing each other’s names, pleading for the walls not to reveal their secrets. John begins to jerk Paul off, cradling his head like he’s made of glass as he kisses him. 

“That’s right, I’m here. I won’t leave.”  
Promises, John knows, are meant to be broken. 

And then they finish and a stone has been dropped from their chests. The room is silent. For the first time in years, they are one. 

They stay stuck for a couple minutes, basking in the hazy afterglow. Surely, it’s the ultimate form of paradise to feel their hearts beat together. 

Paul knows he’s vulnerable in these moments. Prone to scaring, easy to overshare. But Paul still asks. He has to know he’s worthy of _John Lennon._

“Will you still love me tomorrow?” he whispers.  
That ignites something in John. Not everyone may love Paul but how dare he doubt John’s love? John leans back and grabs Paul’s chin, lining their faces up. 

“Now you listen to me. There was never any still, alright? I have loved you since and I will love you till I am old and my organs are mushy and deteriorating. I love you today and I will love you tomorrow. It doesn’t stop. If it stopped, it wouldn’t be love.” 

Paul begins to say something else because they both need to always have the last word but John silences him with a finger over his lips. 

“Shh. If you argue, I’m going back to my hotel.”  
Paul closes his mouth pretty quick and instead rests his head in John’s chest. 

“I’m sorry for being how I am. Selfish, pushy, mean. I’m so mean, John. I don’t try to be and I don’t wanna be but it happens an’ I—“ 

“You are not mean. I don’t think there’s a mean bone in your body, Paul McCartney.” 

“I am. I’ve hurt people and been manipulative and selfish. I hurt you. How could I have hurt you?” 

“We all make mistakes ‘cause we’re human. But I say you’re not mean. And that isn’t a debate. Now come on, sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”  
John carefully rolled over and gently pulled out, dragging the sheets over them. 

_“Dream of me.”_

He’s been dreaming about Paul for years. Even when they were together, he’d have all sorts of distorted visions about them. Paul was always everything in the dream. All the colors and shadows and stardust trapped in those eyes. He was everything in his life too; hauntingly, fleetingly beautiful. 

But Paul is just near, chest rising and falling peacefully, dreaming and looking like John’s universe. 

He is still asleep when John closes the door behind him, breaking his promise for the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> I like comments and kudos very much :)


End file.
